


It's Bad Luck to Kill a Seabird

by Cousin Shelley (CousinShelley)



Category: The Lighthouse (2019)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunken Kissing, Gen, M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21970495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinShelley/pseuds/Cousin%20Shelley
Summary: More than one wickie has believed there to be enchantment in the light.
Relationships: Thomas Wake/Ephraim Winslow
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2019





	It's Bad Luck to Kill a Seabird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/gifts).



Ephraim walked to the rocks, carrying dead gulls in each hand. All were soaked from drownin’ in the cistern, except the one he'd beaten to death. It hung limp and bloody from his fist. A gust of wind sharp with salt nearly blew him over when he reached the edge of the rock. He tossed the birds into the sea one hand at a time. 

He stared at his bloodied palm, then wiped it on his pants. He had beaten the bird to death, hadn't he? The memory floated in his mind, blurry like he'd opened his eyes in muddy river water to see it. The edges never got quite sharp enough, and the current moved things just as he'd nearly got it into focus. 

With a knife held to his throat to force the truth from him, he couldn't have sworn that someone else hadn't killed the bird and shoved it into his hand, as insane as that sounded. 

_This whole fuckin’ place is insane._

Ephraim spit into his hand and rubbed it on the rock until his skin was bright pink and stinging but without a trace of blood. 

The wind picked up, and later when he went into the bunkroom, the old man’s shoulders shook, soft sounds coming from his pillow. Was he weeping?

Maybe he dreamt of the sea, and missed it. 

* * *

Thomas had been dreaming of the blondest hair he'd ever seen, short and framing a strong, square face. He dreamed of calloused fingers twisting in that hair, but not to hurt, until a familiar cramp in his gut startled him awake. "No, laddie, no . . ." 

Thomas bit his pillow hard enough to throb the tooth that had gone loose a few weeks back. He tasted blood and bit down anyway to muffle the sound of his despair. He couldn’t stop it, but he couldn’t even stand to hear himself anymore. 

He'd forgotten to explain _why_ killing a seabird meant bad luck, hadn't he, how they was men claimed by the sea, brought back to life? Sailors. Fuckin' one-eyed wickies. Not that it would matter, he supposed. But he could've tried, rushed to get the lad that bit of fact. Maybe it would have done some good. Maybe it would eventually. 

Only one night left, and Winslow had gone and done it and the wind had changed. Only one night left. They'd almost made it. 

Later, Thomas stood on the rock. The night was pitch, but even if he could have bent the lighthouse down like a lamp and shone it directly on the rocks, there'd be no blood left to see. Hadn't been able to keep from looking, though. 

Face damp with spray, Thomas threw his head back and shouted. "Hark!"

His voice cracked at the end, and softer he groaned, "I warned him 'twas bad luck. I even struck him, I did!" He sucked in a damp breath and screamed. "I implore ye, I tried, harder than ever. I tried . . . damn ye!"

The sea was silent but for the roar of water whipped by the winds against the rocks. By the time he'd climbed the stairs to the lamp, he panted like a dog in the sun,as much from exertion as anticipation. He took his time with his boots and trousers, letting everything he took off drop into a pile. 

Thomas pressed his skin against the lens, pressed hard enough to burn and ache as if he might push right through it and end up in the center, the light glowing from his eyes, his nostrils, flames from his mouth as the lamp caught him afire. 

"Let me burn up in the midst of ye!" He wrapped his fingers around himself and squeezed. "How much more can ye take? How much more can I give ye?"

He pounded his fist against himself until he couldn't hold back, shouting as pleasure coiled around him with a dozen wet arms, chill as the depths. 

"Will it ever end, like ye promised?"

Cold flesh slid against him, inside him, through him, but no answer came. 

* * *

There was always the drink, and after they'd boarded up and battened down, Thomas found no reason to avoid enjoying lobster and grog. If he didn't find some pleasure in the few moments he could, he’d surely go mad. Maybe he already had. 

When they'd drunk more than a dozen men ought, Winslow muttered as if he weren't Winslow himself, but someone else. Thomas offered nothing but the occasional _shush_ , because it didn't matter none anyhow. The bird was dead, the wind had changed. Their fates were locked down tighter than the boards they'd nailed up earlier that day. 

* * *

Winslow sucked on his cigarette. "They didn't come."

A weariness settled over Thomas like a slow wave. "Gale winds be blowing, Winslow. Now ain't the time for chatter." He took a fresh bottle with him when he went outside. 

* * *

Drunk again, because what else was there now?. Thomas sat on the floor with his legs stretched out. Winslow’s head numbed his thigh where he’d dropped back to stop himself spinnin’. He’d spilled his beans, and spilled up his guts at least twice, but kept pouring the rot down his gullet. Thomas didn’t have the care to stop him. 

“So you ain’t ashamed of nothin’,” Winslow said. “Not a thing in this world?”

“I lied. I'm ashamed of some things. Not a vast number, mind ye. But enough. Enough to damn me to this life. This rock. You."

"What've I got to do with it?"

“Yer drunk.” 

Winslow took another draw from his bottle. “Aye. And you.”

“I ain’t denying it.”

Winslow dozed a bit, belching his liquor. They shouted songs and stomped through dances, they challenged each other to drink, like winnin’ was all that would ever matter again. Then they held on tight to one another, swayin’, like holdin’ a woman close and makin’ promises with your whole body, soft and slow. 

Thomas licked his lips, swallowed, pressed his mouth to Winslow’s. And Winslow kissed him back.

Their mouths were sour with drink and time, and nothin’ stirred in the deep, nothin’ flickered in the lamp. No great beast rose from the sea floor, and no calm split through the storm to offer deliverance. 

Thomas shoved him and growled out a curse, kicked at him where he’d fallen with Winslow grabbin’ at his ankle and trying to pull him down and stop his fit. 

“Tell me, Winslow, did ye fuck him this time, or did ye just flirt with the bastard before ye let him die?”

“You’re daft, old man,” he said, but his face had gone hard and long, eyes so wide the whites shown all around the edges. 

“Ye admitted to me to killin’ him. Do ye thinking fuckin' him first was the bigger of sins?” Thomas threw back his head and laughed hearty enough a cough took him halfway through. “Ye always were soft in the fuckin’ head.”

Winslow got to his feet and punched Thomas, sending him spinning until he smacked into the wall and slid down the floor.

Thomas belched and tasted blood. “Oh, it don’t matter none anyway . . . _Thomas_.” He chuckled. “It don’t matter none to us, because that was only one of our sins.”

“What’s this _our_ ya keep sayin’? You leave me out of your crazy ideas.”

“Thomas, Thomas, Thomas.” He stared at the ceiling. Not tellin’ him had never changed a damned thing. Maybe spillin’ his own beans would fix what was broke, or break what was fixed. Either was better than this. “Don’t ye think it’s a might odd we both have the same name, laddie?”

“Common name,” Thomas said. “Don’t seem so odd to me.”

Thomas found a bottle on the floor nearby, half-empty and on its side, and drank from it. “I broke my leg on board a ship, _kind_ of like I told ye. After I decided bein’ a timber man wasn’t for me. I said I was ashamed of some things. I was ashamed of him. You know the one. Light hair, bright eyes. So ashamed, I watched him slide between the logs and disappear.”

He threw his head back and howled like a trapped animal, kickin’ his heels on the floor, cheeks damp with tears. He yelled so loud, his voice was hoarse when he stopped. “I thought that would damn me, but life went on until my leg weren’t seaworthy no more and I came here to work under that one-eyed bastard. The one the sea favored and brought back. The one the _light_ favored.”

He leaned forward, hope against hope that spelling it out would do the trick. “Thomas, you’ve got to remember to keep yer hands free o’blood. Man, bird, any fuckin’ thing. One eyes or two, but especially one.”

Thomas’ mustache twitched like he was grinding his teeth together. “You’re a fuckin' crazy old man gone mad with drink.”

“Sane with drink. Gone mad with sin. Just remember, if you kill the bird, ye damn us. Because we’re one and the same, Thomas, one and the same in different times, servin' as each other's punishment.”

Thomas found the knife on the floor, and lurched toward Thomas. 

Thomas didn't lift a hand to stop him, relief weakening his limbs. “Ah, we always were such a murderin’ fuckin' bastard, weren't we?” Thomas ground out before the night went black and bloody. 

* * *

Pain lurched inside him, and Thomas knew Winslow had killed the gull. He wept in his bed, pillow shoved into his mouth, for the fine, sturdy beauty he'd met loggin' and let die, and the wickie he'd killed thinking he'd reach the light and find salvation for one murder by doin' another. He wept that the sea hadn't claimed him but saw fit to keep spittin' him back. 

* * *

The storm drove them inside, Winslow angry and sure Thomas had led them to drink so much they'd missed their chance, maybe for weeks. 

Winslow sucked on his cigarette, his eyes hollow, haunted, to still be stuck on that rock. "They didn't come."

Thomas stared at the boy with hooded eyes, mouth dropped open, bloody tooth throbbin' with his heartbeat. A weariness settled over him like a slow wave. 

"They never do."


End file.
